


broken bones & healed hearts

by Cancelpocalypse



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: M/M, byleth is actually smart, general crest shenanigans because i've been thinking about crests and crest stones a lot, it is a very self indulgent fic, set around chapter 18
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-07
Updated: 2021-03-07
Packaged: 2021-03-13 18:12:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,659
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29905068
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cancelpocalypse/pseuds/Cancelpocalypse
Summary: All the pieces are falling into place as the time to take back Fhirdiad grows near. Dimitri has Byleth's confidence, his friends' fealty, and curiously enough, Felix's sword at his side.But Cornelia's forces are stronger than anticipated, and if they don't take down the sorceress quickly, Faerghus will never see its true king on the throne.
Relationships: Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd/Felix Hugo Fraldarius
Kudos: 16





	broken bones & healed hearts

**Author's Note:**

> Important background knowledge:  
> In this story, crest stones are only compatible with their specific crests. Of course each hero’s relic has its own crest stone. So, if you want to wield the Lance of Ruin (Gautier’s crest stone) you have to have at least a minor Gautier crest. If you have a different crest, the same thing would happen to you as happened to Miklan. OK, that’s all you need to know.

It is the eve of the march to Fhirdiad. The thought is strange. It makes Dimitri nervous. He’s had healers attend to him for a full week, making sure he’s in good enough health to lead their forces there from Garreg Mach. Strong enough to take the capital back from that traitorous Cornelia, and then be crowned king. Though he doesn’t feel in the least deserving, he’s resolved it’s what he must do.

It’s also possible the week’s wait is to make sure he’s not going to turn into that single-minded creature who last graced the battlefield of Gronder. Well, he hasn’t. He’s attended the war councils; eaten with Sylvain and Ingrid in the dining hall; sparred with Felix; attended hymns with Mercie and Annette and Byleth. As much normalcy as possible, before they march again. He’s still woken in the night with the dreams seeded by his ghosts. They still talk to him, but for the first time in years, he has the resolve to counter their demands. He was brought to a critical point, by his own mad actions, and he chose to turn around, instead of continue on.

This is what Rodrigue would have wanted, but more importantly, it is the right thing to do.

There will be more of these critical points ahead. His trials are far from over, he knows. There is still Edelgard. But his mind feels clearer, and his steps feel more like his own.

It is near time to retire. He descends the stairs to the grassy graveyard where Rodrigue has been laid to temporary rest, the sun’s last rays turning the stone walls of Garreg Mach orange.

Someone is already there. Felix.

Dimitri is glad to see him there, and hesitates, wondering if he should leave him alone. But they have been spending enough time together that in the end Dimitri continues forward.

He draws up beside Felix, who holds the Aegis shield steady as its tip rests in the grass at the foot of Rodrigue’s grave, Fraldarius’ crest stone glowing and making the shield radiate a shine warmer even than the sunset light, responding to Felix’s crest.

This is the tool of the Shield of Faerghus.

Will he be reborn?

“Not yet,” Felix says, with a glance to Dimitri. Dimitri jumps a bit as this seems to be directly in answer to his thoughts. Felix lowers the shield down, so it is lying amidst the flowers on his father’s gravesite. When his hands leave the ancient material, the glow fades away. Felix straightens.

Dimitri understands. It is much better than a no. “I am in no rush for you to determine your path,” he says.

They remain there for a few moments. Sounds of activity below faintly reach Dimitri’s ears as he pays silent respect to the man that saved his foolish life.

“Felix, you know I do not expect you to even march with us –”

“Stop bringing that up. I’ve made my choice as far as that.”

“I just need to know that you are not pressed to do so, as if this is your duty, for it is not –"

“I said _I_ made my choice,” Felix snaps.

Dimitri shifts his weight. “I . . . well . . . if that is true, you would be appreciated with the main forces when we go to Fhird—”

“We already worked this out. I’m on the front lines. You know I’m strong enough.” Felix glares at Dimitri. “You’ll need me. Cornelia’s not to be underestimated. You know that.”

Dimitri sighs shallowly. “I know,” he says. He still does not want Felix on the front lines. It would be too much to have Felix taken from him, and so shortly after Rodrigue. The entire line of Fraldarius blotted out – this had come to pass in his dreams last night, leaving him startling awake, choking on a false grief.

“I survived this far – we survived this far. We’ll make it,” Felix says. “If you don’t hold back. I won’t.”

Dimitri wants to tell Felix that that isn’t the point. He’s not even thinking of victory. He’s concerned about _Felix,_ and what – and who Felix is. To him. Whatever Felix is to the rest of the world – angry, rude, relentless, foolish, honest, devoted; a skilled swordsman, a major-crest-bearer, Rodrigue’s successor, useless in leadership, even worse at holding his tongue – each report of Felix from others who know him has truth, but Dimitri sees them all, and wrapped up together, they make someone who is incredible to him. Some who is beyond value, whose life he feels to be tied to his very own, through the years and years they’ve known each other. 

“I know,” is all Dimitri can say. _Not yet,_ his thoughts echo Felix’s words. Because, if not now, he’ll have to live to see a later day. And that’s what they need right now.

“Don’t stay up too long. You’ll fall off your horse on the march north,” Felix says, and leaves Dimitri alone.

Dimitri allows himself the quirk of a smile. Felix really does care, more than anyone, doesn’t he?

* * *

Byleth never asks Dimitri to keep a secret. Nevertheless, sometimes, when their professor-turned-strategist tells him something, he has the odd feeling that he’s the sole confidant who is fortunate enough to receive this knowledge.

Dimitri goes to the dining hall for a bite to eat and Byleth meets him there, offers to accompany him back to his quarters. Dimitri accepts. His room for now is the old Blue Lions classroom, which is quite excessive in his opinion, but at least it gives the healers room to work and several people can visit at a time. They discuss preparations for tomorrow’s march as they go, ensuring everything has been taken care of. Byleth is usually all business, all about efficiency, and frankly their forces would fall apart without such leadership.

Byleth stops at the door as they arrive.

“I have settled on the reason as to why I don’t have a heartbeat,” they say thoughtfully.

“Really?” Dimitri says. “You’ve said before that you were actually born here at the monastery. Did something happen then?”

“Yes. Jeralt left that detail in his letters. But I had to work backwards to figure it out,” Byleth says. “I decided to finally consult Hanneman.”

Dimitri raises an eyebrow. Byleth has never been very comfortable around the overenthusiastic crest scholar. Felix, neither, on the frequent occasions Hanneman has approached him to ask about doing this or that thing on him, to study his major crest.

“We think we know what happened. The key is the Creator Sword,” Byleth says.

“I thought you had that figured out. Your crest is strong enough that you don’t need the crest stone.”

Byleth shakes their head. “That’s what I thought. But it is not true. Hanneman has never come across any case where someone could wield a relic without its stone. It is more reasonable that I can wield it because the crest stone is _in_ me.”

Dimitri frowns, thinking. “Does this have anything to do with what horrors were worked on Lysithea as a child?” Lysithea had joined the Blue Lions only a short time before the war began. She’s told a few close friends, Byleth included and Dimitri by proxy, about the blood surgery she underwent which bestowed on her a desired crest.

“No. At least, there is no reason to believe so. I had no striking physical changes before the blessing of the goddess; Jeralt would have known. He was with me always, except at birth. His letters detail that I was born while he was away. It is odd that Jeralt never trusted Rhea, and that Rhea put so much confidence in me when I first arrived at Garreg Mach.”

Dimitri laughs. “Some people weren’t too happy that a merc had taken one of three teaching positions.”

“Indeed. The only thing that makes sense is that when I was born, Rhea – Seteth doesn’t know, so I suppose it could only be Rhea herself – implanted the crest stone in me. And it explains why I’ve never been quite right.”

“’Quite right’? I believe it goes unsaid, but you’re one of our strongest,” Dimitri says. “Blessed by the goddess herself!”

“You know what I mean. I do not make relationships easily, in general.”

“Ha, neither do many of us,” Dimitri says. He pauses. “Really, though. So you have a crest stone – in place of – what, your heart?”

“I allowed Hanneman to do some . . . tests,” Byleth says, a hint of distaste. “He believes this to be true.”

“Well, it certainly explains your power. But why would Rhea put the stone in you? And you must have been born with the matching crest, to not have the stone consume you and turn you into a beast.”

“You’re right. Hanneman has concluded I must be a descendant of Nemesis to bear the crest. And, knowing my mother died giving birth, I would think my life too was in danger. Perhaps the crest stone was the only way to save me. We will know when we rescue Rhea.” Byleth has a faraway look. “I know it is a fantastical story, but it is the most logical explanation I have now. There is more as well. As well as being blessed by the goddess that day six years ago, I also . . . “

Dimitri awaits.

“. . . well, I shall have to tell you later. It grows late.”

Byleth never gives the full story if they’re not ready. Part of what made classes so engaging – their learning always seemed a bit exciting, like a mystery you could solve, if you kept at it long enough.

“We will certainly see what more light Rhea can shed on your story when we rescue her,” Dimitri says. “Goodnight, professor,” he finishes, with a grin, using Byleth’s old title.

There is a faint bit of an acknowledging smile about their lips, as well. “Goodnight, crown prince.”

* * *

The crown prince’s forces set out early the next morning. Byleth’s story is simply quite fascinating so he asks their permission to tell it to Felix; they say yes and so, on the ride, Dimitri describes to Felix how Byleth came to wield the Creator Sword, and came to have no heartbeat. _Makes sense,_ is all Felix has to say, but from the time he spends silent and thinking, Dimitri knows he finds it interesting.

There is only so much to talk about on the road to the battle, however, and for much of the ride Dimitri is silent, thinking about the confrontation to come.

On the third day they reach Fhirdiad.

Cornelia has quite the show waiting for them.

Where Dimitri has Ingrid’s pegasi, Cornelia has her own fleet; Sylvain’s calvary she has prepared for with horses and beasts of her own; moreover, Cornelia has her own special weapons. In particular, rumor has it that she trains her mages herself, and their brand of dark magic is not a nice thing to deal with.

The rumor is true.

When their forces finally pierce through to the courtyard, a set of mechanical monsters await them, along with fresh troops of the kind they have been slowly downing to reach this point. Many of these men and women were once loyal to the true royal line of Faerghus – not anymore, poisoned by Cornelia. It quickly becomes clear – their foes will continue to slowly crush their forces unless those true to Faerghus hunt down the witch herself.

A clear vision of justice exists for Dimitri, as the outcome for this battle: to kill the woman, the woman who turned the country against its rightful king, who poisoned it from the inside out, who has joined the plot to spill blood across Fodlan. And now, with the urgency of their situation, her sentence must be carried out with highest priority. Today, justice comes to her; not vengeance, no. Justice is more dangerous. Justice is a rallying truth, while vengeance is just a crippling fury.

Dimitri knows the castle’s layout best, among their elite who have a chance of taking her down. Felix, second best. Something learned from childhood. When Felix, with Rodrigue – ah, but now is not time to think of the dead. Now is the time to cast all doubts aside, as Felix joins him with the sword of Moralta in hand and a shield strapped to his left arm.

With supporting troops clearing a narrow path for them, they reach her on the parapet. Dimitri, Felix at his side – Sylvain, Ingrid and Annette push the line in the courtyard. It seems there has always been a space at Dimitri’s side, the perfect shape for Felix. Felix, who can’t command a battalion to save his life, but whose skill with the sword and crest of Fraldarius make him a sharp and fast opponent.

Cornelia casts a sickeningly sweet cloud of bursting dark magic. They avoid. She fades back. They pursue her into the castle.

Inside it is dim and devoid of life, a far cry from Dimitri’s memories.

Cat and mouse, hide and seek until they’ve travelled down a hall the converges on two others, a larger corridor that leads to the throne room. The engraved doors leading inside are closed.

The echo of Cornelia’s laughter fades in the hallway before she materializes in a poof of dark fuschia, looking like something poisonous, dressed opulently, her half lidded gaze betraying how sharp of a spellcaster the woman is. So close, the sweet stench of her in his nostrils, Dimitri has to fight to stave off the memories of being held by her in his castle’s own dungeon. He rushes at the woman with Areadbhar ready to extend; she lobs a Death Γ which he dodges, skidding to the side, then pivoting and lunging. She does not run so much as float out of the lance’s reach, but immediately has Felix to contend with. With a yell the swordsman goes for her neck but she simply cloaks herself in a cloud of magic. Moralta’s blade cuts through nothing, and the dark cloud passes around Felix and mists the through the crack under the throne room’s shut doors.

Dimitri draws up beside Felix. They both eye the doors. Chains and two locks hold them securely closed. It won’t be a problem for Areadbhar. Dimitri readies his lance and gives Felix a nod. The surviving Fraldarius hoists his shield up in response, amber eyes alive.

With a yell, they charge the doors.

Ancient magic and his crest’s power joined, Dimitri calls on the war arts he’s learned. With a single slash, Areadbhar, glowing like a solar flare, cleaves through the metal and wood blocking their way. As the two charge through, Felix leaps ahead with his shield. As anticipated, a hurtling blob of dark magic crashes into the metal, shattering the shield but protecting them.

Cornelia sits on the throne. She does not seem to have bothered taking down any of the blue Faerghus banners. However, the edges of the room are cluttered with what looks like parts of her mechanical guardians in the courtyard, as well as foreign looking plants; dark vines with tiny red flowers crawl on the walls and window, making the light inside dim.

Felix rips the straps off his forearm and discards his broken shield as it seems Cornelia is busy appreciating her position of power, eyeing them without a further move. “Well? Go ahead, reclaim your throne. Or are you going to wait for your friends to arrive? They’ll be a while,” Cornelia smirks.

Dimitri knows Cornelia is no fool. He glances around the room again. She clearly wants them to charge her. Before he’s figured out her schemes, though, Felix extends an arm, a sigil blooming and rotating around his hand, and lightning arcs from his palm out to a certain piece of machinery. The metal, scored with a regular pattern of runes, seems to absorb the energy, shakes, then explodes with a blast of Cornelia-esque magic cloud.

“Get all the pieces that look like that,” Felix shouts, and he and Dimitri bolt into action as Cornelia screeches and starts floating angrily down from the throne.

The next few minutes feel like an eternity of smashing machine parts, dodging blasts, and wheeling out of range of Cornelia and her casts. The parts they don’t get destroy quickly begin to hover and glow that sickly fuschia colour. Dimitri doesn’t know what they’re about to do, and he doesn’t want to find out. Dodging the edge of Cornelia’s Luna, Dimitri brings his lance smashing down on another unit of the runed metal. He wheels back around, but the sorceress again poofs in a cloud of magic and reappears out of reach. Across the room, Felix calls thunder down on another threatening runed machine.

“That’s all!” Felix yells, barely audible over an upset screech from Cornelia as she comes uncloaked and settles on her feet, no longer floating.

Dimitri charges her from the front, as Felix rushes at her from behind.

Cornelia summons Luna, the glowing artifice of a moon forming over her. It is slow, too slow.

In reach, Dimitri jabs Areadbhar out, aiming for her heart. She steps aside just enough that it scores her side and not her vital organs. But there is still Felix; from behind, he slices Moralta up at her exposed chest just as she turns to face him. Again, Cornelia steps aside, but too slowly, and Felix’s blade opens a gash, spilling blood. But her very blood is a putrid weapon: as the fluid hits the floor it begins to cloud. One inhale, and Dimitri’s mind immediately feels thick and soft. Instead of sweeping Areadbhar forward to finish her off, he finds the weapon too heavy to lift. Felix is similarly struggling, Moralta falling from his grip. Cornelia writhes through the cloud of her own blood.

She must bleed out soon, but yet she thrashes.

Dimitri finds himself unable to bear his own weight even as he makes to retreat, to remove himself from the radius of the noxious fumes. He staggers, dropping to one knee. His vision is blurry; the blue colour of Felix at his side has also sunk to a knee.

The vile clouds forming from Cornelia’s blood lessen, but they are potent enough to keep Dimitri yet in this poisonous prison. The witch still lives, although her form is becoming something awful, flesh blackening, her form becoming more and more skeletal as if her bones are sucking her flesh in. Blood only drips out of her wounds now. Her opulent dress and ornaments sag and clatter around her. The wraith extends a hand of blackened fingers; the beginnings of Luna above drop to her hand and swirl, gathering, a last offense before she is no more. Her eyes, once half-lidded in her plush face, are too large and exposed as her visage quickly becomes skullish. She stares straight at Dimitri, hand outstretched, preparing a dark spell uniquely for him.

He feels the alarm and instinct to move himself out of harm’s way, but his brain is still fogged and heavy, his arms still bewitched lax. He can only pray it will not be a lethal spell – the blue of Felix is in his peripheral, and although it is difficult to willfully move his head more than a few degrees now, it brings some comfort knowing that if this is his end that Felix will be the last thing he sees.

The creature that was Cornelia – or perhaps, the creature that Cornelia always was – releases the last twisting bolt of its dark magic and dies, with not much more than a sigh and collapse.

Dimitri is knocked backward.

But not by the spell.

There is a weight on top of him.

It is Felix. Dimitri tries to do something, but the poison is still in his system. He focuses on breathing.

Slowly, whatever it is cycles out of him.

He finds some strength return to his arms. He struggles to sit. It seems the effects are also wearing off Felix, who rocks back on his heels.

Panting, Dimitri manages to find his balance again, though leaning over and supporting himself with hands braced on his thighs. “Felix,” he says between breaths, “Are you hurt?” It must not be bad. Felix starts to get to his feet. He gives a grunt. Dimitri tells his eyes to focus on Felix, his vision still bleary.

“I bet you didn’t expect me to pick up . . . those magic parts . . . stashed around the room … “ Felix coughs, on one knee, about to rise. But he hesitates, head bowed. Suddenly, Dimitri’s vision snaps back into place. He took Cornelia’s dying spell in the gut: there’s a dark, wet wound there, soaked through his teal coat.

“Felix, Felix lie down,” Dimitri tells him. He drops down to Felix’s level and supports him as the man obeys. If Felix is obeying an order to lie down . . .

“I’ve been working on my Reason … a lot,” Felix coughs, “That’s how.” Despite the boast, as Dimitri helps lower him, their eyes meet and Felix’s are wide, too wide. “I’m – I think I’m fine – we can just –” he grunts, but there is too much blood. Now he’s on his back supporting himself on his elbows, and even that’s slipping as he strains to see the wound.

Dimitri takes a closer look. His stomach falls, or flies into his throat, hard to tell which; feels like the ground drops out from under him. It is bad. It is very bad. Felix’s blood is already spreading out onto the stone under him. Dimitri never had an aptitude for magic, and oh how he wishes he did.

The infirmary is a long way from the throne room. Could Dimitri get there and back in time? But there is nothing there to remedy such a wound. Felix needs their best healer . . . and even then . . .

“You weren’t – you weren’t supposed to take this for me,” Dimitri says, his throat so tight it’s barely a whisper. He is almost _angry_ at this. He’s pressing a hand over the wound.

Felix’s face contorts. His breath comes shallow and shorter. “Couldn’t let you die to that thing. Y’almost did … the first time she … caught you.”

The realization is still setting in. No. No. _No, no no._ Blood wells and spills from where he tries to hold the wound in Felix's gut closed. "No – no, that -- that was not your duty, Felix." Dimitri's mouth stumbles around the words. He's frantic. What can he do? What can he do? Goddess. Goddess, there’s nothing, Felix is pale, his blood is – is everywhere. He’s going to die.

"I know… fool," Felix coughs. "I do not die for duty, I die for . . ." The strength fades from his voice so that the last word Dimitri only reads off his lips, but it is undeniable: _. . . love._

Dimitri freezes, as if he could stop time by being still. But Felix fades, silent.

There has to be, there –

\--there is one thing.

The matter Byleth told Dimitri of in confidence, but a few days ago.

Where is Areadbhar?

\--but even if Felix has a major crest, and could withstand such a replacement for his failing systems, he's not got Blaiddyd blood, and this stone . . . well, it's meant for Dimitri. His blood sings when he has the lance in his hands, but the melody is a dirge to anyone without the Blaiddyd crest.

Urgency – panic – fear of loss, fear of loss beyond recovery – he cannot let himself be swept away, he needs a solution.

And he thanks the goddess that Lysithea survived to tell her story, for that suddenly births an idea.

Felix is growing still, unresponsive. Dimitri has no time but to act. He takes Areadbhar up in one gauntlet, from which drips Felix's blood. The lance seems to hiss with the Fraldarius crest so applied. Dimitri latches the tips of his other gauntlet around the crest stone set at the base, among the carpals of the relic bones. However, the stone is well-embedded, and even if Dimitri has the strength to rip it out, he does not have the purchase – the metal claws slip around the edge of the stone.

There’s no choice. He must break the ancient weapon, the bones of a god, or Felix will die while he’s trying.

Will the lance fight him?

He takes the phalanges of the lance's end in one hand, and below the stone setting with the other, and makes to break it in half. The weapon screams, letting off wisps of red as Dimitri puts every shred of muscle into this task. It feels wrong, and yet it is right. _Break,_ he wills the ancient thing, trembling as his muscles burn – and suddenly – a hairline crack splits the edge. Then, a louder _crack,_ and it sends a bolt of shivers down Dimitri's spine as if he's killed a thing.

Areadbhar, snapped in two, releases the crest stone.

He picks it up. Even separated from the touch of his skin, it feels like his hand might bubble and vibrate and burst with the excitement of power so close. His gauntlet immediately warms. He swallows. Could Felix survive this, could he hold onto himself, with this much raw power instilled into his body, even if it matched his crest?

No time to wonder. Dimitri rips through the leather strap of Felix's pauldron, through the front of his coat, through the dark blue shirt below that, so his chest is exposed.

His resolve shakes only momentarily, hand pressed above Felix's heart. He will have to break his ribs and – and – this is madness – but Felix is already a dead man –

The thought of what he's about to do recalls when Dimitri had been on the battlefield for the first time, when he had torn into a man's chest and killed him with his gauntlets, and Felix saw him for what he was, at the time, a bloodthirsty monster.

_I'm sorry. Sorry for you and me and everything that's ever come between us._

Dimitri carves an open wound on the left side of Felix's chest. He's always been afraid to hurt Felix, but not now: there's a threat if he doesn't do this, even though blood flows out from the cut, dark and violating against Felix's skin. Another cut, crosswise to the first, quickly made. Like some kind of twisted symmetry to the blue cross on Dimitri's own breastplate. Exposing flesh and muscle and ribs, he reaches into Felix, through the living resistance, breaks the guardian bones with his raw strength. Underneath is Felix's heart. A holy thing, to him, now bare among the carnage Dimitri's created. And before he can even tell if it's stopped beating, Dimitri takes the crest stone of Blaiddyd, the rightful power of Faerghus' king, and plunges it into that organ.

The place of implant begins to spew vapors that vanish into nothing, thrumming with the power of the Blaiddyd stone. Felix contorts, the beginning of turning into something horrible. His major crest is strong, but it’s incompatible. His form shakes and ripples, casting off wave after wave of energy as the clashing forces want to form him into a beast, at the behest of such a foreign crest invading his body.

But Blaiddyd and Fraldarius are not meant to be enemies, not in this lifetime, not in this world. Dimitri will not allow it.

His left vambrace is already broken in two places, and he hurriedly tears the armor off. The gauntlet comes off that hand as well. He rips his sleeve to expose skin, takes the sword of Moralta from where it lies close to Felix's shuddering hand. Presses his wrist to the edge of the blade. His grip shakes: he has to be careful, not too deep, not too shallow. He leans into the sharp edge, and it cuts through his skin.

Dimitri does not feel a thing as blood begins to weep from the slash, the blinding urgency blocking out any sense of pain. He pins Felix down, the thrashing, contorting body spilling plumes of ancient power, Blaiddyd stone furiously meeting Fraldarius blood. He presses his weeping wrist to where he's opened Felix's chest, willing his own crest to assuage the stone's fury, willing their bloodlines to mix and heal, willing Felix to come back to him, as he was. Dimitri feels a scream tear through his throat, putting his strength into holding Felix down. There has always been something between them – Dimitri's ghosts, Felix's anger, and it's evident now, and it's killing the last chance Dimitri has of saving him. Goddess, or whatever damned power can be blamed for making all of Fodlan suffer so, for making _them_ suffer so – _surely you heard! Surely you know! He loves me, as I him!_ _You have his blood for me, and now mine for him! What more do you want?! Let us live! LET US LIVE!_

Perhaps someone hears him, or perhaps his sheer need is enough, for Felix's chest begins to burn with a golden colour. Hungry, struggling vapors are finally cast away by pure beams radiating from the crest stone. Squinting into the source of the power, Dimitri watches Felix’s heart engulf the crest stone. His ribs re-join and the cracks mend. Flesh crawls over the bones. His skin comes back together, closing overtop. Felix’s form stops stretching and mangling into a beast – he is fully human, and his struggles calm until he is still again.

Dimitri takes a few ragged breaths. He dares to check the wound in Felix’s gut. It is similarly healed.

Dimitri is suddenly faint, with blood loss and relief. But wait – how to tell if he’s _alive?_ For Byleth has no heartbeat--

Felix does not give Dimitri any more time to worry, as his eyes snap open and he immediately struggles to sit up. His amber eyes are bright again, bright with life – no, it is not just life, they appear lighter, as though gold.

"Where's my sword--?!" Felix chokes, his eyes remaining wide like he is still in the throes of battle, scrabbling for Moralta, but Dimitri stops him by nearly collapsing on him with the best embrace he can muster. Dimitri is crying. Crying tears of joy. His grip in his left arm is weak and Felix pushes him off, gives him a once-over.

"You're _bleeding out,_ boar," Felix snaps, his tone more frightened than anything. He grabs Dimitri's left hand and summons a heal sigil above the self-inflicted wound.

The rush of white magic floods through Dimitri's wrist and arm, up his shoulder, and the cut closes.

Felix looks startled, his hair blown back by the spell's intensity. "Wait, you – did Cornelia -- _wait,_ " Felix says, and looks down at his coat torn open and the bloodstained puncture that had nearly sent him to the grave, touches it gingerly, then not so gingerly, looks back at Dimitri with absolute bewilderment, looks around them for any healers but it is only the throne room. There is blood on the stone, Cornelia’s corpse a huddled, blackened mess several feet away, destruction of their fight evidence in the machine parts strewn about the room’s perimeter.

But they won.

Dimitri cannot say anything, he is still light-headed and crying, and almost laughing now at the look on Felix's face.

"Wait," Felix says again, faintly. He looks down again at his torn clothing, back up, to the side where Dimitri's lance lies dull and in pieces. He finally notices – "You _broke_ Areadbhar?! When—where's the--" And Felix's hand goes to the left side of his chest. All the colour goes from his face.

Dimitri tries to stop the little crying hiccups of laughter in his throat to try and explain, but he cannot.

Instead he falls on Felix again, in a stronger embrace.

Felix doesn't resist, perhaps in shock.

"Why—how—" he says into the no doubt very dirty fur of Dimitri's cloak. "I don’t have a heartbeat. How am I not dreaming -- " he sputters before stopping himself. Then: ”Did you seriously – don’t tell me you did the Byleth thing to me! You _idiot!_ ” Felix wrestles himself quite effectively out of Dimitri's arms. " _I_ _–_ _you_ _–_ did you put – you put your crest stone," he pants, again his hand going to his heart, as if he cannot believe the stillness he must feel there.

"Yes," Dimitri says happily.

"There's no way I could survive that!" Felix says. "Without turning! Without becoming a beast!"

"Perhaps not without the blood of such a beast in your veins now," Dimitri says.

Felix freezes. He, too, knows of Lysithea’s childhood, conversation over not-so-sweet cakes. Dimitri finally sees understanding dawn on him as the pieces fall into place.

" _Boar,"_ he says, hushed. Water glistens around the bottom edge of his eyes. He grips Dimitri's wrist, looking at where the slash on his wrist has closed. His gaze flicks there, then back up to Dimitri’s face. “You could have died! You _were_ going to die, going to just bleed out, trying this wild experiment of yours on me! You _fool_! How did you know it would work?!”

"Because . . . you're a Fraldarius, and I'm a Blaiddyd. And . . . you're mine. And I'm yours." There is faint noise coming from behind them, past the throne room doors cloven in two by Areadbhar (perhaps the last doors to ever receive such an honour). But Dimitri's focus is unwaveringly on Felix, whose eyes are wide and expression bright with shock, eyes still wet with tears. "You said you loved me," Dimitri says, sure and reverent, presenting his evidence, his motivation, his joy.

"With – with everything," Felix chokes out, and wraps his arms tightly around Dimitri, clinging to him, hands digging into the fur of his cape, face pressed into the crook of his neck. They sit, close like this, the stone of the throne room still wet with Felix’s blood, the Blaiddyd stone in his heart. As Dimitri holds him, he doesn’t think he’s known anything better.

**Author's Note:**

> alternate title "in which dimitri does an emergency medical procedure"


End file.
